I’m a pretty phlegmatic ape, but every now and then someone manages to get on my tits. The latest character to accomplish this dubious feat was a fellow called Coley Laffoon. From the minute he entered the safari guesthouse he was full of peevish asides about his former wife, the actress Ann Heche. Initially I felt sorry for the blighter, and when he sat at the bar one evening I listened patiently to his griping.
“Well cheer up,” I said at length. “It’s not many men who get a lesbian to change sides. No one can remove that feather from your cap.”
“Lesbian, my ass!” he snapped as he gazed into his drink. “The whole thing with Ellen Degeneres was a sham for publicity. After we got hitched I said she could bring home any girl she liked for a threesome. Or just for me to watch. But she never did, not even once.”
“Maybe you completely cured her of the Sapphic urge,” I suggested with little conviction. He didn’t seem like the Sapphic-curing type.
His only response was to make a noise like a punctured tyre.
After a while he resumed his carping, declaring that his ex-wife had “fucked him over good” by consorting with various actors, one of whom had impregnated her. I began to tire of his bellyaching and made plans to move out of earshot. But before I could do so, he initiated a new line of complaint about the insufficient alimony she was paying him. This was too much to bear silently. A man who advertises his financial dependence on a woman who has shunned his bed is utterly devoid of dignity.
“Stop whining, you ungrateful cuckold!” I barked. “The settlement you obtained is evidently a generous one given that you are now on a de luxe safari!”
I strode away to let him stew in his sour juices. After my shift, I entered the manager’s office to do a little research on the computer. It seems that this Laffoon poltroon was deeply complicit in the dissolution of his marriage, having spent a good portion of his leisure time playing ping-pong and watching porn. Imagine how frustrating that must have been for Ms Heche. You are playing table tennis with your spouse, hoping to improve your game, and he’s continually making you wait between points while he watches some big-titted blonde perform the reverse cowgirl (or whatever it’s called). In Ms Heche’s place, I would have downed my bat until he had finished the movie.
Come to think of it, I don’t see why a man with an attractive wife should watch pornography at all. Using a mixture of flattery and lewd cajolery, he should be capable of persuading her to engage in 90% of the acts one finds in tasteful erotic entertainment. The fact that Laffoon was apparently unable to do so testifies to his mediocrity and general unworthiness.
Now I’m not saying Ms Heche is blameless in this affair. She is clearly at fault for (a) marrying a dullard and (b) behaving like a hoochie rather promptly rectifying her error. But the balance of culpability always lies with the party who complains the most, particularly when I have to hear it. May Laffoon be afflicted with a boil on his backside. And may the nurse who lances it be a poor but enthusiastic darts player.
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